Route Recalculation

tomatos 71419
Apparently (I hope I don’t jinx myself), I have a green thumb for outdoor container gardening!

I learned some things on the way to my most recent appointment in Boston:

One – Black-eyed Susans grow in colossal patches alongside New Hampshire’s main roadways. When the sun shines on them, they glow gold. I’ve never seen so many of these flowers growing together! It was breathtaking. If the traffic had been slower, I would have taken a picture.

Two – Traffic stopped for an hour on I-93 due to an accident. Someone involved in the collision was air-lifted out. Even amid the sirens of police cruisers, ambulances, and fire trucks, there was silence. Silence for the injured. Silence for the “what-if’s”. A silence that is not heard, but felt.

I learned some things while in Boston:

One – Although I stopped taking my anti-rejection medication in June, it’s still circulating in my body. It takes three months for it to clear out. Until then, I will continue to take an anti-viral, Acyclovir, as well as an anti-biotic, Bactrim. We did eliminate one medication from the list, though. Bye-bye Protonix!

Two – The second dose of a vaccine can be worse than the first dose. The first time I was given Shingrix, I also received seven other vaccinations. At the time, it was difficult to tell which vaccine site was hurting the most or which vaccine might have made me feel like a zombie. This time, Shingrix was the only injection that I received. And it hurt. I spent Thursday, on the couch, nauseous. The positive side of this? Shingrix is replacing the Chicken Pox vaccine in the post-transplant re-vaccination procedural. That’s one less live-vaccine that I’ll be receiving in September!

I learned some things while feeling half-dead on the couch:

One – It’s okay to rest. It’s something that I should have done more frequently after relapse in 2017, but, for various reasons, I was unable to.

Two – There are many, beautiful things in my life. We may not have New Hampshire’s Black-Eyed Susans in our ditches, but we do have these:

blue flower

It’s Biblical-sounding, but you do reap what you sow. In my particular case, it’s Johnny Jump-ups descended from the hanging baskets that my parents gave me last summer.

Johnny

Johnny, obviously, has not had an easy life. He looks a bit beat-up. He doesn’t let it get him down, though; every morning, Johnny wakes up, and soaks up the sunshine.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. Thank you for all of the prayers, love and light that you send my way. This week, I will be having a Bone Density Scan (it’s a fairly common exam after cancer treatment). I’ve had one before. It doesn’t hurt. I am, however, feeling anxious about the results.

Bone Density can be affected by many factors, including cancer treatment. Since my relapse in 2017, I’ve had massive doses of Chemotherapy, Localized and Total Body radiation, Ovarian Failure (did you know that Estrogen is essential to a woman’s bone health?). I will admit to being afraid that my once-a-day, calcium supplement and my Hormone Replacement Therapy have not been enough to counteract the side-effects of all of these (ironically) life-saving toxins. Of course, we’ll see what the scan reveals, and make a plan to deal with whatever the results are. Until then, please continue sending prayers, light, and love. Thank you.

And, to leave you on a positive note, here are some pictures of our newest (and youngest) backyard visitor:

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With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

Joyful

snowflake

Dear Readers,

I apologize for the delay in posting this entry. This past week was insanely busy! I’m sure you’ve felt it, too; how time seems to speed up the closer we get to Christmas. Amid the feeling of being rushed, though, is the potential to create beautiful and joyful memories.

For instance, last Friday, my fiancé and I went to the ICU Christmas party. The party was biker-themed. I wore a mask (because it was a bit crowded and I still need to protect myself from germs). I didn’t want to feel like a patient amid doctors and nurses, so I decorated the mask, biker-style:

biker mask

The mask came off briefly for pictures with my person, though:

christmas party
(I stole this photo from my fiancé)

Somehow, the next day, we were able to squeeze in some holiday decorating. Our tree is a Fraser Fir, it’s approximately ten-feet tall, and it smells spectacular! When I look at this tree all aglow, I reflect on holidays past and am excited for the Christmases to come. I don’t often feel joy, but when I see the star on the top of this tree, it takes me back to childhood, when Christmas was pure magic.

decorating the tree
(I stole this photo from my fiancé, too)

Decorating was cut short by a follow-up transplant appointment in Boston. The appointment was scheduled for 9:30am on Monday, and, since the trip usually requires 4.5 hours of driving one-way, we decided to book a hotel for Sunday night. I drove the first leg of the journey:

driving to Boston
(Again, I stole this photo from my fiancé)

I think I have always admired Boston. I wanted to go to grad school there, but plans change, and that’s okay. The city was incredibly beautiful Sunday night, as we walked to a restaurant for dinner.

trees of boston
(He did an excellent job with this one…so you know what I had to do) 

It was quiet enough in the restaurant, that I didn’t have to wear a mask. My only real worry was having hat hair (and my fiancé taking a picture of it):

dinner

It’s a welcome change to worry about trivial things, like messed-up hair.

My appointment went extremely well. I am now officially OFF of Prednisone! My lead doctor decided to give my body a chance to adjust to being without steroids before we begin tapering any other medications. Other notable changes include:

  • I will begin tapering my anti-rejection drug on January 1st, 2019. I will admit to being afraid of this step—afraid that I’ll develop Graft vs. Host Disease without the anti-rejection meds and/or the steroids—but it’s a step that needs to be taken.
  • It’s a little thing—but I can add honey to my tea again!
  • Masks are now only required in crowded, public spaces or in doctors’ offices. Quiet restaurants during off hours? No mask. Quiet movie theaters? No mask. Of course, this taste of freedom comes with responsibility—frequent hand-washing and the use of hand-sanitizer are both still required. I must also avoid individuals that are coughing, sneezing or are ill in any way. I also cannot be around individuals have spent time with family, friends, or co-workers that have been ill or recently vaccinated (my fledgling immune system still can’t handle the live viruses used in most vaccines).

It’s a lot to process, but these are enormous strides toward being “normal” again. I don’t expect 2019 to be an easy year, but I do believe it can be a wonderful one.

homeward
(This photo is all me – as are the photos of the snowflake ornament and mask)

Thank you, Dear Readers, for taking this journey with me. Your prayers, kind thoughts, and light have carried me through so much. You are appreciated!

 

With Love & Gratitude:

Laura

No Accidents

On August 21st, 2018, I had MRI’s of my lumbar spine and head. Imaging was followed by an appointment with my neuro-oncologist. She is a wonderful doctor and, in addition to making sure that my brain is disease-free, she monitors me for seizure activity.

It, apparently, has been six months since my last seizure.

The medication that my doctor placed me on has worked thus far. And, as long as I continue to take that medication as prescribed, and remain seizure-free, I am allowed to drive.

Yes, they’re letting me behind the wheel again!

steering wheel

But, whoa, girl! You can’t just get in a car and go….

In many ways, I feel as though it’s been a lifetime since I’ve driven anywhere. It’s like I’m 15 years old again, driving my father’s Chevy S-10 around our yard, narrowly avoiding trees. Driving did not come naturally to me and, now, I have a lot to relearn.

I stopped driving shortly before I was officially diagnosed with relapsed Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. The tumor in my spinal cord (which no one knew was there until February 2017) made manipulating the brake and gas pedals extremely painful. I was too slow braking and I knew I was putting my life—and others’ lives—in jeopardy. To me, it was an unacceptable risk. So, I stopped driving.

That was in my Civic Coupe—the car from my single lady days, if you will. My fiancé and I traded our respective vehicles in when we realized a bone marrow transplant in Boston was inevitable. We needed a vehicle that a six-foot-five-inch tall male could comfortably sit in (the Civic was too small). We needed something that was fuel efficient (his truck, although loved, was not). We ended up with a sedan. Boxer engine. Slate blue. Great MPG.

wheel

Now that I am allowed to drive again, it’s my turn to get comfortable with this trade-in. For someone with spatial awareness issues, though, adjusting to a change in vehicle size is a challenge. To be on the safe side of things, I prefer to drive with a co-pilot. I like to stick to quiet roads. No rush hour for me, please.

Sitting behind the wheel again, though, has surprisingly stirred up some memories from my high school Driver’s Education class. I can picture the manual that we were assigned to read. I can remember driving through one of the small towns near our high school. I can remember struggling with parallel parking. On one of these voyages—in the Driver’s Ed car packed with four students (one driving and three in the backseat)—the instructor asked a rather serious question.

I can’t remember the exact wording of the question but the answer was, “There is no such thing as an accident. There are only collisions.”

Only collisions.

It’s an odd thing to remember, I suppose—but I do believe that nothing is entirely accidental. As I wrote in my last post, there is a plan. We simply don’t know all of the details. It becomes a bit clearer, I think, when circumstances begin to collide.

Please, Dear Readers, continue to send prayers, light and love. Your positive thoughts give me strength; you fuel and fan the little spark of hope in my heart. It glows brighter because of you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

 

With Love,

Laura